


Dark The Night Grows

by JohnlockedCameos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Background Case, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Character Turned Into Vampire, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Multi, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Top John Watson, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockedCameos/pseuds/JohnlockedCameos
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a secret - one he has kept for 663 years. Mostly. John doesn't know. John can never know. But when Sherlock's secret life catches up with him at a crime scene, it's impossible to deny it to John.It couldn't have come at a better time, really, because something is coming. Something big. And Sherlock and John will have to give everything they have to save those they care about. It's a select group, but they'd very much like to keep it intact.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> With the new year comes new beginnings... The beginnings of a new fanfic, if that wasn't clear. This is my first Sherlock fic but I had this idea and it wouldn't leave my head until it was on the page. I hope you enjoy :D

To survive a Sherlock Holmes strop, one needs noise cancelling headphones, endless cups of tea, a good book to keep oneself occupied whilst your three-year-old flatmate throws his metaphorical rattle out of the pram, and the patience to rival that of a Saint.

John Watson had two of the above. Endless cups of tea and a good book. He was wishing for noise cancelling headphones and, if Sherlock were to ask, the fact that he had just bought a pair online (to be delivered the next working day, thank you very much) had nothing to do with the tantrum the great detective was currently throwing. 

Oh, and by tantrum, John did mean tantrum. The mother of all trantruns. The ultimate tantrum. The tantrum of all tantrums. The- you know what? He's going to stop there. 

Sherlock was pacing the length of 221B although, thankfully, the harpoon had yet to make an appearance. Those silver eyes kept moving side to side, blinking rapidly, he kept flicking his hands and fingers as if to shake something off, and he was muttering low under his breath. Everything about him just radiated… agitation. As if he was bored, as if he wanted a cigarette, as if he was going through the early stages of withdrawal, as if it was a danger night.

John cleared his throat, "Sherlock." Nothing. "Sherlock." Still nothing. He sighed heavily and rose to get a fresh cup of tea. Say what you want about stereotypes, John was a firm believer that tea could fix everything. 

The sound of the kettle boiling must've drew Sherlock out of whatever reverie he had lost himself in. Blue dressing gown flaring dramatically behind him, Sherlock spun to face the kitchen. "John," he snarled, "do you have to make that insufferable noise?"

Ignoring him, John reached up for a fresh cup. "Tea?" He asked. 

"Yes, tea!"

John was not above revelling in the satisfaction of that. 

Walking back into the living room with two steaming cups of tea, John placed Sherlock's on the table and took the moment to observe the detective. He was paler than usual, if that was possible. A lot paler. John opened his mouth to comment on it when a shrill ring cut through the flat. 

Somehow already wrapped in the Belstaff and stood by the door, Sherlock answered his phone. John rolled his eyes and went to grab his coat as Sherlock glided down the stairs - a bloodhound on the hunt - with the glee of the prospect of a new case. 

Much as he would love to sit in comfortable silence in his chair, the tea and book occupying him for hours, John loved to watch Sherlock cast that beautiful mind over a crime scene. It was the thrill of the unknown, the challenge of death. It was the battlefield he would never leave. 

And so it was with a small smile that John walked down the stairs to join his mad friend, the cups of tea and book left long forgotten in 221B.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock's attitude didn't change when they reached the crime scene… Strange because even John could tell that this had to be an eight, at least. A woman, mid-twenties apparently, lay face down in a back alley. Perfectly normal. What made it an eight was the blood.

It was everywhere. The stale, metallic stench of it coated their clothes, the walls, the pavement. John wouldn't have been surprised if it was even in their hair. Red pools of it fell into the cracks of the pavement, a splatter had dried on the wall with drips cascading like claw marks. The body was completely deprived of blood, but there was no exit wound.

John knelt down next to the corpse, the smell growing stronger. Something was mixed with it - something musky, heavy. It reminded him of all the times he had tried on his Grandfather's suits as a child. "What do you see?" Sherlock was crouching opposite John, his coat bunched around his hips to keep it from getting dirty. Posh bastard.

Clearing his throat, John assessed the woman. Her eyes had sunk into her head and there was a greenish, purple-blue tinge to her so the body had been here for a while. His eyes travelled to her legs which were bent at a horrible angle… Carefully, he felt around her thighs and took note of the difficulty he had moving her limbs, the stiffness. Rigor Mortis, then. Continuing his inspection downwards, John's eyes widened at the state of her ankles and quickly moved his sight away. Her arms, both left and right, were also broken and hung loosely, disconnected, from the rest of her. It was then he noticed the bumps at her collarbones - in a completely different place than what was normal.

He looked up and saw Sherlock staring across from him in waiting. He most likely already knew what was wrong with the body, knew her entire life story, but it was nice to be included. John shifted. "Both thighs have a broken femur as well as both arms having a broken radius. The bulge at her ankles is the talus which seems to have been dislocated… Perhaps intentional from her killer or an accident from tripping in her shoes. There is also sternoclavicular dislocation and dislocation of both shoulders - my guess is that whoever did this wanted to imbolize her. There's a case of Rigor Mortis so she has been here for seven hours-"

"Ten."

John sighed through his nose. "I was going to say at least."

"No you weren't."

No, he wasn't. But Sherlock didn't need to know that. The insufferable git. John stood and dusted himself off. Sherlock stayed, crouched beside the corpse, and sniffed, silver eyes widening.

His entire body went white. Paler than how it had been at the flat. Paler than the dead body in front of him. Worry crashed into John, flushing itself into every single muscle, vein and nerve. Something was wrong with Sherlock. He'd known it back at 221B, known that something wasn't right. He should've trusted his instincts, dammit. He shouldn't have allowed him to leave the flat. The flat was safe, secure. Hearth and home. 

John took a step forward, a plan and diagnosis already forming in his mind. Low blood sugar, lack of sleep, malnourished, the list went on. He would call a cab, force Sherlock to sleep on the way back and then send him to bed after he had had a good meal in him. Plain and simple problems to fix but he wouldn't let Sherlock forget this - why couldn't he just take care of himself like a normal human being?

Hand hovering over Sherlock's shoulder, John watched in shock as the detective just… fell. Like a puppet with it's strings cut. Within seconds, Lestrade rushed forward and put his hands under Sherlock's arms. Without even thinking, John grabbed his ankles to help Lestrade carry him. 

One way or another, Lestrade seemed to know what was going on. John often forgot that there was another entirely different point in Sherlock's life where John hadn't been there, where Lestrade had been there when no one else would. "What's going on?" John demanded, hiking Sherlock's legs higher to get an easier grip. 

Anderson snickered. "The freak's faking 'cause he can't figure it out, that's what's going on."

Lestrade grunted at Sherlock's weight - for someone who ate so little, he was heavy. John blamed his ridiculously long legs. "Anderson, try to keep it professional."

Raising his hands, Anderson turned back to whatever he had been doing. They neared Greg's police car and carefully laid Sherlock on the back seat. John swore at the state of him; Sherlock's skin was… Utterly devoid of any colour. Nearly translucent. The contours of his face had turned a horrible grey and… Black lines crawled over him where-where veins were supposed to be. 

Voice slow and quiet, dangerous and every inch the army doctor from Afghanistan, John turned to look at Lestrade. "If you don't tell me what's going on-"

Greg had rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and started prodding at the skin. John's anger snapped into frustration. "Oh, yeah, you just check your wrists whilst Sherlock is unconscious in the back of your car. That's fine."

He ignored him. "Don't freak out."

"Why would I freak-"

Reaching into the pocket of the seat, Lestrade drew out a black Swiss army knife and flicked it to the sharpest tool. The silver flashed as it held it over his wrist, took a deep breath, and then pushed it gently into his skin. Blood welled up, beads of rubies, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered. 

And then John saw them. The fangs. He blinked. Sherlock's fangs.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She had been on the run in Paris 1462. 

She had had auburn hair that was always styled into an intricate knot with sunlight honey waves cascading down her porcelain back. Before he had known his relationship preference, they had spent a night together. Sat by the fire, hiding from the rain and the people she claimed wanted her head on a silver platter. He had played the violin in a way no human should have been able to and she had sung with a voice that had meant everything. They created, delving deep into that part of themselves where the music sang, and wove together a melody deep into the dawn. The rise and fall of notes, words changing into forgotten languages, the strings of the violin and her delicate voice dancing around and falling into each other.

The music was a dance. It was a curse. For so long, it had been his only confinement. And then she had come and he had shared this beautiful thing with her. For one night. It was only ever one night. 

He took her to that lyrical chamber in his heart. The room with marble walls, pillars that stretched to a never-ending starlit sky, and a golden chandelier. The room was his world and so few people had seen it. It was him at his most vulnerable.

But in that room, in that small piece of his heart, she had took his hand and they had danced. The sound of their feet against the marble floor was the sound of water running over silk. That night they had only each other and their music and, he thought as he watched her sleep, that he would be content with his forever, would suffer through it without complaint, because he had managed this. 

He had finally known what it was to live. It wasn't luxury, riches or gold. Nor was it food and comfort. For so long, he had thought that to live forever was to live. But that wasn't really living at all. 

Living was this.

Sitting next to a warm hearth, his fingers leaping across strings, and his beautiful miracle sprawled on the floor beside him, singing in her sleep. Her gown had been cream and ruffled with lillies painted at the bottom. She never went anywhere without wearing a lily.

In all his one-hundred-and-forty-three years of living, it had never felt like this.

She woke before dawn and told him that she wanted to spend the rest of her life, her forever, with him. He had looked at her, seen the hope and desperation in her green eyes, the quivering of her body as she breathed and awaited his answer, the dainty way she moved. She had been elegant, and beautiful, and understanding. 

The flower that grew in the grave.

He was a fool to say yes. But he did. Because even he could not deny the magic that happened when two people created such music together, the bond that would always tether him to her and her to him. 

Together they created an aubade. 

Her name had been Odette Priestly and he had loved her with every human piece of his heart he had left. But she never made it till morning.

He would never forget who he was. What he was. The music had been a lovely distraction, one he would use again, but the monstrous part of him did not care for music. For how could a sound create a love?

After he had promised her her forever (never his - never would he promise someone his forever), she had fallen back to sleep. The song continued, in mind and heart, and she was humming under her breath. As if there was more music inside of her that wanted to see the light. 

She was still humming as he bent over her, as his fangs slipped from their sheath. She was still humming as they pierced the creamy flesh at her throat, as the scarlet was sucked from her veins. 

He could have saved her. If he had wanted, if he had wished, if he had desired. He could have spent forever with her just like he had promised. Making music by the fire and forgetting that a world outside of theirs existed at all. But this life was a curse and, wicked as he was, he would never bestow that on her. 

She stopped humming.

He would wipe the blood from his mouth and his fangs would retract. She would still lay there, two puncture wounds at her neck and her mouth and eyes slightly open. A broken doll. He would pick her tiny body up and take her to the garden and he would dig and dig and dig - a grave much bigger than it needed to be. 

He didn't want her to have a tiny grave. He wanted it to be big and grand, like her soul itself. He wanted to carve musical notes onto the ground and the stone. He wanted to play for her every night and imagine the wind was the phantom of her voice. 

The last time he saw her was as he placed her in that big and grand grave. As he piled the earth back over her body, her eyes and mouth forever awake. Nobody would remember Odette Priestly - the girl with songs in her empty veins and a lily on her dress. 

But he would. 

And so every year, the anniversary of that wonderful night, he went to her grave with a bouquet of lillies and a violin. He would play until the flowers died because what was a few months compared to forever? 

He did that every year for seventy years: her forever. Just as he had promised. 

Centuries passed and the garden where she was buried turned into a fountain with a sculpture made of gold resting on top. He never did go to her after her forever was over. That didn't mean he never thought about her.

He thought about her all the time. During lonely nights when the cocaine was too weak to do anything, when the boredom grew too strong for him to handle, when he was placed in a mental ward in Russia, when he was running from the police in Berlin, when he was sat before a fireplace and remembering that long ago night, he would think about her and he would wonder if he would ever find something like that again.

He had forever to find out, and the thought wasn't comforting. A thought didn't take the place of a girl with auburn hair and lillies on her dress.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock awoke in 221B to voices in the kitchen: John and Lestrade.

One single, important, eloquent and excellently articulated thought rang itself through his head: Shit.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has questions. Sherlock has answers. John also nearly chokes to death on a cup of tea, but, well, let's not get into that just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter and please let me know your thoughts :D   
> This fic is set after Hounds of Baskerville but before Reichenbach in case that wasn't clear.   
> Forever thanking you for the kudos, bookmarks and views,  
> Stars xoxo

The cup of tea did little to calm John down. Calm John down. John should calm down. Lestrade had spent the past half an hour telling him that and the good doctor was starting to feel a little too much like a victim in one of the DI's interviews. Calm bloody down. He thinks _the fuck_ not.

He actually wasn't bothered by the fact that Sherlock was a… was what he was. People had commented on his blog (jokingly, of course, he _hoped_ ) about how supernatural Sherlock acted. After arguments (usually Sherlock's fault) and when he was feeling guilty, John had often wondered how Sherlock could be considered human - although when most people said that about his friend, they usually claimed that Sherlock was more machine than human. When John said it, it was with shock at how an ordinary human could be so..  Fantastic.

To be honest, John could see the vampire in him. He always had but he'd just blamed it on Sherlock's self-destructive habits. The extremely pale skin could be explained by the lack of food and sleep, the lack of food could be explained by the whole 'digestion slows me down' nonsense, the lack of sleep could be explained by a detective who couldn't sleep knowing that there was a monstrous killer on the loose, the body parts in the fridge were just the experiments of a curious scientist, and the archaic language and elegance Sherlock commanded could be explained by his vast intellect and expensive schooling.

Humans were forever trying to explain the inexplicable: karma was a coincide, the supernatural were stories made up so long ago they'd forgotten which parts were true, ghost sightings were figments of an overactive imagination. It made John wonder how many times something - someone - magnificent and inexplicable had just passed him by on the streets.

How many times he'd missed the chance to become invested in an entirely different reality.

"Look, John, this isn't my story to tell," Lestrade spread his hands on the kitchen table like a gambler showing their cards. "I only know because Mycroft told me."

John choked on his sip of tea. "Mycroft told you?! Why in _hell_ didn't he tell me?"

Lestrade shrugged and guilt trickled into John's stomach. This was a conversation he should be having with Sherlock and the anger he felt shouldn't be directed towards Lestrade. Christ, if Greg hadn't been there when Sherlock collapsed, John wouldn't have known what to do. He'd have taken him to the hospital and god only knows what they would've done once they'd checked Sherlock over and found no pulse.

No pulse. His friend had no pulse. Sherlock Holmes had no pulse. _Breathing is boring…_ Was that because Sherlock didn't need to breathe, or was it just another of Sherlock's eccentricities? How many of his eccentricities were Sherlock himself and how many were consequences of his vampirism? Did he fake breathing? Was that a thing dead people could do?

Sherlock was dead. No. He was undead. But he had died, however many years ago, and he had experienced death. He could've witnessed wars, the rise and fall of nations and empires, the battles of Kings and the scandals of a court. He could have even participated in them. Started them.

"I met Sherlock when he was a drug addict struggling to make an income." It took John a while to shake himself out of his thoughts and realise that the DI was even talking. "I never meant to… to invite him onto the crime scenes or to become friends with him. All I wanted was to steer him well away from the drugs and the next thing I knew, I had become his own personal caretaker when Mycroft couldn't do it himself.

"There was something about him. I don't know what it was and couldn't explain it if I tried.  You've felt it, too, haven't you?"

John clenched his jaw. That was a very loaded question. Yes, there was something between him and Sherlock. Sherlock had brought John back to life after the war and continued to do so with every moment they spent together. There was that pull between them - it had snapped into place that day in Bart's.

Sherlock was danger and adrenaline incarnate. He was a terrible influence with a questionable morality. Rude, stubborn, selfish, and absolutely brilliant. Sherlock Holmes was the threat of death blended with the promise of adventure.

Instead of answering, John settled for a nod and Lestrade continued. "Most of the time I spent with Sherlock, he was high as a kite with no plans to come down. He was unpredictable and Mycroft was… Worried is too strong a word, but he didn't entirely trust Sherlock to be so close to human blood when he was so out of it. I guess Mycroft thought that he could snap and wanted to warn me."

That made sense. In a twisted sort of way. Sherlock was a vampire. The thought wasn't startling, nor was it calming. It was just there. Perhaps he had gone into shock. Perhaps knowing it was just a confirmation of what John had subconsciously expected all along. Everything had the opportunity to change and yet John felt like nothing would change at all.

John took another gulp of tea, the hot trail of it down his throat grounding and familiar. "Mycroft… He's one, too?"

Lestrade ran a hand down his face and sighed. "He's never said it out loud, but he and Sherlock are brothers so… It's pretty self-explanatory."

Leaning back in his chair, John took a moment. Mycroft was the type of man that didn't seem dangerous until you were caught in his trap, Sherlock was the type of man that didn't have a trap because people stayed the hell away. They were two sides of the same dark coin.

Had the Holmes brothers always been the way they were? Had something in their past made them into what they were? In the catacombs of someone's memory, did a childish, compassionate, kinder, _softer_ version of Sherlock Holmes exist?

A thought caught itself in the tangled web of John's mind. It wasn't particularly pressing and the answer to it didn't change anything, but… John was curious. He cleared his throat. "To your knowledge, has Sherlock ever killed anyone?"

"You were an army doctor."

John swallowed. "Yea-No. No, I get that my hands aren't exactly considered clean. But has Sherlock ever killed," he shrugged, "an innocent person because he needed blood?"

Greg wrapped his hands around his cup of tea. "I honestly don't know."

Speaking of the devil, footsteps padded into the kitchen and John watched as Sherlock, wrapped in a the same bed sheet he wore to Buckingham Palace, flopped into a seat opposite him and Greg. His movements weren't as graceful and fluid as they normally were, but it was different from the tight and agitated way he had been acting that morning. "You have questions."

"You have answers."

Sherlock raised is eyebrows in, what John guessed was, mock amazement. Greg sighed, stood, and stretched. "Look, this is a private conversation between the two of you. I should get back of the office, anyway. Sherlock," he called over his shoulder from the doorway as he shrugged into his jacket, "be nice and I'll bring a few files over later. John, I'll see you at the pub on Friday?"

John nodded, eyes never leaving Sherlock. There was something about his eyes… They weren't quite right - they looked like how they did at the pub in Dartmoor: unsure, anxious, frightened.

Three things that John never wanted to see on the detective's face again.

Lestrade's departing footsteps were the only sounds in the flat. John shifted in his chair, frowning at his empty cup of tea. "Go on," Sherlock said quietly. So guilty, he was like a child owning up to drawing on the wall. "Ask your questions, have a mental breakdown, pack your bags and leave."

John blinked. "Are you asking me to leave?"

"No, John, obviously!" His hand came to slam onto the table, that velvet baritone echoing. "Everyone always leaves. Why would you be any different?" The good doctor didn't think he imagined the hurt that was laced into Sherlock's words.

Deciding to answer that after he had all the facts, John stood and flicked the kettle on. He took down two clean cups from the cupboard and placed a teabag in each. "Do you sleep in a coffin?" Humour seeped into his voice and he was guessing that that was a good thing - when the world needed righting and when in doubt about if anything will ever be the same again, ask John Watson to swear, rant, or be sarcastic. He will not disappoint.

Sherlock sighed, loud and long, and John felt the glare digging into the back of his head… Perhaps that was one of Sherlock's vampire powers also. "You've seen my bed, John."

"Just checking. For all I know, you could have a castle in the forest somewhere and spend your nights terrorizing the village people."

"What century are you living in?"

"What century are _you_ living in?"

"Are you calling me old?"

"I don't know," John slid into the chair and pushed Sherlock's tea towards him, "are you old?"

Sherlock raised the cup towards his lips and took a sip. "I'm twenty-nine," he murmured into the cup, the words muffled by the tea.

John snorted. "Bullshit."

Sherlock sniffed. "Why?"

"Because there's no fun in living with a young vampire, I might as well just be living with a normal human who has a fetish for blood." He chuckled. "How does that work, anyway?"

"Which question do you want me to answer first?"

"How did you die?"

The question was out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think about it. It might be a touchy subject for Sherlock - murder, suicide, had it been a planned attack? "You don't have to answer it," John added. "It doesn't change anything, anyway."

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. He looked... small. Afraid. As if John would send him out on his ass. Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes to John. "I am twenty-nine. I was twenty-nine when I died." His voice was small, too.

"How many years have you been…" alive? Dead? Undead? "what you are." _Pull yourself together, Watson._

"Six-hundred-and-sixty-three years."

Tea spewed itself from John's mouth as he gasped. He raised a finger to Sherlock, signalling to give him a minute to get his damn act together, as he coughed and spluttered.

After a whole two minutes (which John thought was quite impressive) of choking and attempting to catch his breath, John looked at Sherlock who had watched the entire thing in vague amusement with an eyebrow raised. "Fucking hell," he wheezed. "You're old."

"A blatant statement of the obvious, John."

He laughed, slightly hysterical. "No, but like when I asked you how old you were, I thought you were going to say… Victorian, or something. Not bloody _Medieval."_ Was it even Medieval? He hadn't done history since he was a teenager.

Sherlock really had witnessed wars, the rise and fall of nations and empires, the battles of Kings and the scandals of a court. Huh. Go figure.

Wait. If Sherlock was six-hundred-and-sixty-three, then he had to have been turned in 1349. And if he had been twenty-nine when he was turned, that meant that Sherlock was born in… in 1320.

Something about the dates triggered something in John's brain - something from some long-ago history lesson. Something that, as an aspiring doctor, had peaked his interest. Something he had researched as soon as he got home because it must've been so horrifying, so worrying, so godamned awful that he just had to know more.

"I died because of-"

John's sharp intake of breath cut Sherlock off and he raised his eyes to the detective. His heart jumped, knocking everything inside of him out of alliance. "Black death." Oh, this was a coincide. Or had the universe been foreshadowing something all of those years ago? John wasn't a believer of fate but there was a vampire sat in front of him so who knew anything anymore?

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Well, it wasn't called the Black Death back then, but yes."

"You know," he began after the initial shock had eased, "I was always interested in that during school." He cocked his head at Sherlock and smirked, "What else have you got that I should know about? Were you friends with a king? Did you start a war somewhere? Made it into any history textbooks?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Whatever the adverb was for doing something four times. "You haven't left yet."

For whatever reason, Sherlock posed that as a question. As if he was genuinely surprised that John hadn't already started running for the hills, as if he was expecting it any moment. Had someone Sherlock cared about left him after discovering what he was?

What he was... No, that wasn't right. What suggested that he was robotic, that he was an inanimate object humans could do with what they pleased because they simply didn't understand him. Who he was. John nodded to himself. Who.

He imagined Sherlock - who was always so  scared to give his heart away - sitting on the floor of a dark bathroom, crying with his hands over his chest to try and save the remnants of his breaking heart after someone he'd loved ran away from him.

The image sank John's own heart and turned his stomach to lead. Without thinking, John stood from his chair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock coughed and John heard his quick gasp. "W-What are you doing?" It was rather funny to hear Sherlock, usually so articulate, stutter. It was even funnier to hear the hitch in that baritone.

"Hugging you, you git." _In a rather awkward position,_ John added silently. With his arms looped around Sherlock's neck, his head staring at the curls at the back of Sherlock's head, and Sherlock still balanced on the stool at the kitchen table.

"Why?"

John smiled softly, even though Sherlock couldn't see him, and tightened his grip. "Because you're my friend."


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "William," he replied for it would be a long time yet before he started going by Sherlock, "Holmes."
> 
> Time does it's thing and tugs another forgotten memory out of Sherlock's mind palace. John and Sherlock also play a little drinking game... It ends well. Except for the poor sod who has to pick up an unconscious detective off the floor and put him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter and please let me know your thoughts :D  
> Thank you to everyone that has read, bookmarked, kudos-ed, commented or anyone that's following this in general. You guys make my day.   
> \- Stars Xoxo
> 
> P.S. I actually did a lot of research on this and Bedlam was open to the public during the time period below (1627). They would pay to see the mentally ill patients and the hospital allowed it because they'd get money. Awful, huh?

  
It was two-hundred-and-eighty years after he was turned before he felt comfortable forging human connections. For so long he had wallowed in the cold eternity stretched before him; he could watch the future unfold like a fictional plot, he could astound all and every with his genius, and live a million different lives with different names and different countries until he found the one that he favoured.

The fulfilment of forever. The intoxication of discovering. The seduction of a world bowing to him and him alone. Just knowing that the universe and all its occupants would grow and age and move on whilst he stayed still was enough to spike arousal into his soul.

He had never bothered to get to know a human. They were so dull, so predictable, so repetitive. So wrapped up in their own boring lives, so inquisitive into the lives of others, that they missed what was right in front of them - and if the stories of he and his brother weren't worth gossiping about it, nothing was.

Then he met a man. Pure accident as it always was. A hanging had been taking place and the crowds were roused for bloodshed, shouting and shoving and betting at what the poor woman's final words would be. Undignified and animalistic, it reminded him of a gladiator match in Ancient Rome.

He'd been lurking in the shadows of a back alley - a small gap between two towering buildings with rotting fruit and rats scavenging towards the back. The smell was pungent, stifling, and thick. It was clogged at the back of his throat, had sunk deep into his pores and he was fairly sure that these clothes would be burnt after he was finished with them.

Still, it was a precaution. His brother ventured into the human world frequently and, according to him, being near a toxic smell when human blood was spilt would quell the ache and desire, the burn and thirst. If he wasn't confident in that, his brother had a mask tailored to cover his nose and, in case he did catch a whiff of it, his mouth and fangs.

Oh, it was a beautiful thing. He had been tangled in an affair for dramatic clothing for years and the mask was no exception. Black velvet with silver stitching - like the lace of fog that lined a forest - it had a clasp in the shape of a songbird that would be hidden underneath his hair and hood and covered the entire lower half of his face. All that was visible were the curls on his forehead, his eyes, and the bridge of his nose.

A lady, if she could be called such a thing with the way she was brawling, gave a hysterical scream as the supposed criminal was led out in shackles. Like a badly behaved dog following its master. A hand touched his shoulder, warm and strong, and he was suddenly immensely grateful for his brother's idea about the mask.

"What's a beautiful gentleman like you doing out here?" Hot breath in his ear and slurred words. The hand on his shoulder slackened and, in its place, a lanky body all but collapsed into him. "Come to live with the lowlifes, have you?"

"I wouldn't want to miss the fun."

The man chuckled. Low and beautiful. He imagined the sound murmuring sweet nothings onto sweat-damp skin, sucking flesh until it was purple and bruised and wonderful. "What is your name?"

Shifting his position to accommodate the weight of the man, he sniffed. "Why do you ask?"

"Come on," the man thrust his hips slowly, teasing and tantalising, and it left the back of his throat dry and gasping, his knees shaking. "I'll tell you mine." Heat radiated from his skin, his breath, and mixed with the never-ending thrust of his hips, it was rather hard to think.

He took a deep breath and nearly sagged in relief as the man stopped moving. He took the moment to take in his appearance: blonde hair, long, slick with grease and grime, tied with a band of leather and light skin with dirt cracking in creases and veins. He had blue oval shaped eyes, a rough featured face with a wide chin itching with stubble and heavy brows. His clothes were worn and ended ten centimetres shorter than they should've been, but he stood proud and strong. Confident.

A monster glad of the darkness he had been crafted.

"Anthony Barlow." It was a name he would remember, one he would loathe with his entire being. When he was encased in darkness and clinging to the shreds of sanity, it was all he would be able to say.

"William," he replied for it would be a long time yet before he started going by Sherlock, "Holmes."

The crowd gave another eager roar as the women's head was forced onto the chopping block. Barlow straightened remarkably fast and placed his hands on William's waist, pulling them close and closer still. "I can get us out of here, William, if only you'd follow."

And he didn't know what it was. Whether it be the fire that was slowly consuming him, the tightness with which he breathed, the entitlement and invincibility he felt that morning, or the things Barlow's hands and voice were doing to him, he ended up saying yes. _Yes, I'd follow you. Yes, you can take me to a place that could be ours. Why did you ever doubt me, my love, my everything, my one and only?_

For a blissful fortnight, they slept together in the slums on a dirty mattress Anthony claimed to have grown up with. The memories were hazy and shrouded with the light of dawn and dusk, half-forgotten between the throes of passion and feather light kisses Anthony claimed his skin with.

It lead to him confessing something. Something he had never told another human. He had whispered it in the dark, when Barlow was sleeping, when he wasn't supposed to hear. William had whispered that he loved him, that his mind was different than others because when he looked at a person, he watched their life play out, that his brain was an engine that had no off switch. He confessed that he was a monster, a dead thing hiding in the body of a living thing, that he had killed and enjoyed it and his brother said that he would have to do it again.

Anthony heard.

William woke up the next morning in Bedlam. A mental hospital. He was chained (undiluted silver) and alone. It wasn't a hospital room. It was a cell.

Like a criminal, like a madmen, like the wicked  _thing_ he was. He was chained and imprisoned. 

Anthony had spread the word about this monster living among them, feigning a human life, and William wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, and sob, and scream and burn with the fire that had once been his life. For two glorious weeks, it had been his life.

For the first time in two-hundred-and-eighty years, William stared forever down. And he did not rejoice at what he saw.

People would pay to come and see the poor creature, locked up and dying, they would talk about him as if he couldn't hear at all. _Look,_ one would point, _look at his pointed teeth. Look,_ one would squeal, _look at the colour of his skin. Look,_ another would cry, _look at the black covering it's veins like spilt ink._

 _Look, look, look._ Over and over. Bedlam allowed it because what was the misery of a monster compared to riches?

And because he was tired, because he was thirsty, because he was hurt and angry, William would bare his fangs and move as close to the crowds as he could and he would snap.

It took two years for his brother to catch wind of it.

In 1629, two things happened. William Holmes escaped his first mental facility. Anthony Barlow was found in damned _ribbons_ in that back alley where they had met.

They never survived. The ones he had taken as friends, family, and lovers. Never. 

That night, blood staining every part of him, and the moon low, he finally felt like the monster everyone said he was. And he revelled in it.

And he vowed to prove just how dangerous of a monster he could be.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

John grinned as Sherlock sighed again. They'd been doing this for twenty minutes already and John was no where near finished - it sparked something deep inside him, a childish enjoyment at winning, when Sherlock squirmed and stuttered and widened his iridescent eyes.

The game was simple and easy to play. But it involved alcohol so John was about to have an aneurysm trying to figure out the rules. Ask Sherlock a question, if he answered it then John had to take a shot. If he refused to answer it, Sherlock had to take a shot.

Twenty minutes in, John was fairly sure he was winning. He had been in the army, he had thrived in uni and he went to the pub at least once a fortnight with Stamford and Greg. All in all, it was safe to say that John Watson was no lightweight.

Sherlock, however, was three shots down and looked like he was having trouble staying sat in his chair. It had been John's idea, this little game, under Sherlock's condition that they stay inside the flat.

Fine. That was fine. Save money, no risk of embarrassing oneself in public (and, by that, John did mean no embarrassing footage from some security camera Mycroft could play over and over), and it was much safer to ask Sherlock the types of questions John was just dying to ask.

Oh, it was like being back in medical school.

"Can you even get drunk?"

Sherlock a raised a shaking hand and used it to steady himself on the arm of his chair. "M'can. Ge' drunk, Jawn." He hummed. "Lots."

John giggled like a schoolgirl. It was funny to see Sherlock so… human, mercy to the effects of alcohol like the rest of the world. He took another shot.

The alcohol was warm and soft with a buzz that kicked in his brain and shot adrenaline through his every vein. It made all of his limbs feel like elastic and separate from himself; the loss of control was so alluring to others, but to Sherlock it must be hard.

Harry liked the loss of control. Harry liked to drink. Harry liked to drink too much. The heavy armour of guilt lay thick on him the next day, but John always forced himself to remember Harry when he drank. It always made him stop when enough was enough.

"I've seen you in mirrors," John spread his hands. "Explain."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock moved to sprawl back in his chair. "St'ry. Made-up. Gullible, you," he pointed his finger at John. "Appear in mirrors, walk 'n Sun," he began ticking things off on his fingers, "but hurts after while, ga'ic disgust... An'thin' else?"

John wasn't sure if he should take four shots or not. He opted for not since he wanted to win. "Can you die?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Not yet, but I'll let you know."

"No, you git." He shook his head. "Is it possible for you to die? Stake through the heart, tear your limbs away, set you on fire?"

"That was an accident! One time," Sherlock pouted. "You, Les'rade… Hold that agains' 'e."

To be fair, that had been a silly question. Sherlock set himself on fire nearly on the daily. John took a drink. Three shots for him, Sherlock four.

Sherlock continued. "Through heart, yes," his eyes were wide like a frightened child. John felt a sudden rush of protectiveness that left as soon as it came. "Not good. Silver, undiluted, ouch. Also stab, not good. Hurts, but we can pull out."

"Isn't silver for werewolves?"

The detective, through his drunken state, gave John a look that John was sure could've killed a weaker-hearted man. "Don't be obtuse, John." It was funny how Sherlock could stop slurring words just to get an insult out. Sherlock scoffed. "Believing everything they tell you, silly."

John's eyebrows knitted together and he frowned. "Who's they?"

"First Court. They create lies, sew them into stories so what you'll be expecting will be different from the reality. You'd never suspect us that way."

That really asked more questions than answered them. John sighed and felt his tequila-infused buzz give way to a pulsing headache. His eyelids grew heavier with each blink, his mouth dry, and… Perhaps they should stop now. It was a silly idea to have such a serious conversation whilst intoxicated, but John hadn't wanted it to be awkward and Sherlock hadn't wanted it to be boring.

Mission accomplished, John thought as he watched Sherlock all but fall like a house or cards into his chair, his eyes slipping shut. Nearly seven-hundred years alive and the bastard never learnt how to hold his liquor.

There was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson's sweet _"Yoohoo"_ hit John's ears devastatingly high pitch. He turned to face her as she took in the shot glasses lined up on the floor, Sherlock's snoring body, and the half-empty bottle of tequila John had popped out to buy from Tesco's. "Are you boys having a date night?"

John choked and shook his head. "No, no, Mrs Hudson. Just a stupid game to pass the time."

"Well, there was no need to rush out to get some. You should've asked to see my cupboards."

Standing from his chair, John stretched and winced at the dull pain in his shoulder. "I didn't know you drank tequila."

"It goes well with my herbal soothers."

 _Right_. Mrs Hudson waved an envelope. "I'm sorry it's so late. This was on the bottom of the stairs? I saw it when I was doing my bins." She held it out. "Looks important. It could be a nice new case for Sherlock - you know how bored he gets."

John took the envelope and shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans to look at later… Preferably when he wasn't slightly drunk. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He gestured to the kettle. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"Oh, no, dear. Thank you anyway, but it's hard enough to sleep with this hip as it is." She looked at Sherlock, her eyes softening. Somehow Mrs Hudson ended up caring for him in a way that only a mother could… John wondered vaguely how that happened. "Give him my love when he wakes up, will you?"

"Will do."

Mrs Hudson beamed and patted John on the shoulder. "You should come down to mine for tea soon. We need a good catch up." John nodded. "Goodbye, dears."

John watched her down the stairs, making sure she didn't fall, before shutting the door to 221B. Closing he and Sherlock in, locking the rest of the world out. For some reason, he filled John with calmness and comfort like staring into a fire.

He watched Sherlock, slowly falling to the floor and muttering under his breath in a voice too low for John to hear, and sighed heavily. How was he supposed to put a six foot, drunk, five year old to bed?

 _Yeah,_ John thought as Sherlock finally face-planted the floor, snoring softly, _you're a big scary vampire_. He shook his head. _Git_.

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have another discussion and Lestrade has some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight delay... I don't have a regular updating schedule, but I plan on every 2-3 days.   
> Thank you for your lovely comments, kudos, bookmarks, subscribes, and views, you angels! :D  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and please let me know what you think.
> 
> Stars Xoxo

_Thud, thud, thud._

John groaned as he shook himself out of the clutches of sleep - the warm, delicate embrace of unconsciousness giving way to the sharp claws of alertness.

It had been such a lovely sleep, too. Quick to lay it's heavy comfort and peaceful once it did. No nightmares, no tossing and turning. _That was definitely a plus side,_ John thought, _to getting drunk with your vampire flatmate._ A good night's sleep.

Bed creaking as he stood, John surveyed the damage he had done to himself. The last thing he remembered was wondering how he was going to get Sherlock to bed and, if the ache in his shoulder was any indication, he had managed just fine.

Well, not fine. His shoulder ached like a bastard, but he might've dropped Sherlock once or twice so he had that sulk to look forward to.

_Thud, thud, thud._

His head continued it's raging beat and pulsed like a heart. Apart from the pain in his shoulder and head, nothing else seemed to be particularly worrying. His mouth and eyes were so dry, John was sure they could give a desert a run for it's money, but that could easily be taken care of.

Noises were echoing up from downstairs. Sherlock was awake, then. Good. That was good. John scratched the back of his head. Was that good?

Memories were coming back in blinding flashes. Each eruption of a picture came with a whip of pain that had John regretting every sip he drank last night. It hadn't even been that much… Had it? Who cared. Sherlock had been much more worse off than he had, but did vampires suffer the same effects of a hangover as humans?

It didn't seem fair that they did. Or did it? Eternal life, youth and beauty for the price of a shitty hangover. But Sherlock could get drunk and he could get high and he could get tired, hurt, and hungry.

Maybe vampires and humans weren't so different after all. Except for the whole… biting necks and drinking blood. _Well_ , John thought with wicked humour, _everyone has a kink._

Sherlock was at the kitchen table when John reached the living room. He all but fell face first into his chair, his eyes peering over the back as Sherlock concocted some sort of experiment. As long as it didn't burn down the flat and curse the death of innocents, John really could care less.

He didn't seem hungover. _Stupid, lucky, undead git_. In fact, the detective seemed rather… Excited with his experiment. Smoke toppled out of a beaker filled with bright purple liquid and Sherlock grinned.

"You'll want water," he said smoothly without removing his eyes from what he was doing.

John snorted. "I'm not drinking out of anything until it's been thoroughly cleaned. Last thing I want is some weird fog, smoke thing to float out of my mouth whilst I'm with a patient." The good doctor chuckled at the mental image.

"Would you rather drink out of the tap?"

An immature part of John wanted to storm up to the tap and do just that out of spite, but he quelled it. Mixing Sherlock's childish behaviour and his petty own would definitely not end well and it would take Mycroft Holmes to fix that mess.

He didn't know why he was so angry. He wasn't angry. He was tired and achy and hungover and he was supposed to remember the things that had happened last night because they were _important_ , but all he could gather from their stupid drinking game had been putting Sherlock to bed and smiling as the detective buried into the covers like a sleepy overgrown dog.

Except... _There!_ His mind snagged on one piece of information, like clothing catching on a tree branch, and he clung to the wobbling thought until it hardened into something coherent.

 _First Court,_ he had said wIth that baritone rumbling from deep within his chest. His words weren't slurred then - they were strong, respectful, fearful. _They create lies, sew them into stories so what you'll be expecting will be different from the reality._

"What's First Court?" The question was out of his mouth before he'd even had time to think about it. _Damn_. Sherlock talking about anything private was like hunting deer; do the wrong thing and he'd get spooked.

Which lead to silence, leaving for days on end, a rather uncomfortable meeting with Mycroft, a danger night, and endless cups of tea after the eventual return of Sherlock Holmes.

"You dropped me."

John blinked, flopping on to his chair so he was sitting in it properly. "Yes, I did."

Sherlock sniffed. "That was mean."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want me to leave you on the floor all night?"

"The idea wasn't completely opposed to me."

"Your Majesty," John muttered under his breath. Whether Sherlock heard it or not, he didn't show it.

There was a loud bang, like a firecracker, and John whipped his head round to stare. "What are you doing?"

"A woman's alibi depends on whether or not this formula created the sound you just heard." Pure, undiluted glee in his voice. Like a child unwrapping a Christmas present and it being exactly what they wanted.

John gave a small smile despite himself. "What else."

In the silence, another question took root in John's mind. It was probably a more personal inquiry to Sherlock's vampirism, but he still wanted to know. And there was another question which crossed the line entirely - although John was quite sure that he'd taken both feet and damn well strutted over the line the second he became flatmates with Sherlock.

Sherlock probably took the line as a challenge and had been five feet over it the day he was born.

All these questions rattling around his skull… He most definitely had not made use of the drinking game last night; his brain had been too clouded with alcohol to think properly and ask the important questions. Actually, what had he even asked last night? All he could remember was Sherlock's suddenly sobering at the thought of a court. The First Court.

There would absolutely need to be another conversation. He hadn't asked any serious questions last night and the fact that John hadn't even wondered until now where (and how) Sherlock got his blood supply said a great deal about himself.

Lestrade had cut himself for Sherlock at the crime scene. But had that just been because it had been an emergency? When was the last time Sherlock had fed before, how long could he go, and why had he waited so long this time? Waited so long that his outside appearance was starting to show what he was on the inside. Dead.

 _Undead_ , John corrected silently. _You're not living with a corpse._ There was another loud bang. _Yet_.

Rising from his chair, John avoided looking at the mess the great toddler was making of the kitchen. It would just make him mad. Instead, he fixed his sight on the kettle and flicked it to boil.

Hopefully, Sherlock hadn't used any of the tea cups for dangerous experiments. John decided he would take his chances as he pulled down a cup, and on second thought, one for Sherlock as well.

Once the kettle had boiled and the tea was steaming, John placed Sherlock's cup on the cleanest space of the table and sighed heavily as he sat in the other seat.

From the time he had known Sherlock, John had learnt one important thing about the detective: he was a child. So he had learnt how to approach Sherlock when he was being a child - it was the exact same way he approached young children at the surgery when he had to give them an injection.

 _Give them a choice._ John usually asked if his patient wanted to hold their parent's hand or squeeze a toy, then he would ask if they wanted to look, and to distract them from the needle going in, he would ask what kind of plaster they wanted afterwards and then it all over.

Sherlock didn't look up. He just kept taking notes and mixing things together until something happened. "Okay," John said. "You can answer either question, but you will answer one." Sherlock raised a brow and finally put his experiment aside.

Not allowing the shock of Sherlock actually agreeing to his orders to show on his face, John pushed Sherlock's notebook even further out of his reach. "Tell me everything about this bloody court or tell me everything about your relation to blood."

"You're going to leave."

Fear. Pure and utter fear. On his face, in his voice and words, in his eyes.

John placed his hands on the table. "I'm not going to leave, Sherlock, do you understand me? The amount of crap I put up with, there's nothing now that would make me leave. You being who you are doesn't change anything. In fact, I think it's absolutely incredible."

After a minute or two or silence, Sherlock let out a long breath. "Mycroft."

"I'm sorry?"

"My brother. Mycroft." He shifted so he was angled towards the door - protected and ready to run if John told him to. "Mycroft sends me… supplies."

 _Supplies…_ John resisted the urge to shudder. Lestrade had pointed out that he had been in the army, his hands were just as dirty as Sherlock's, but the idea of the Holmes brothers taking human lives for their own enjoyment, calling them supplies as if they were that disposable made him uneasy.

Perhaps humans were disposable to the Holmes brothers. They'd seen so much of the world, would see so much more after, they must look at humans the way humans look at ants.

Completely insignificant.

"Mycroft has assistants that scour the world for the dead and the dying. They have… machinery that allows them to gather their blood and store it so it seems fresh when my brother or I require it." His tone was flat, empty, defeated. As if, despite John's reassurances, this was utterly damning to their relationship.

It was an effort to make his words warm and comforting when John's thoughts were running wild - the word supplies going around and around. Sherlock came first and he had to believe that John would never leave because one crack in his mask and Sherlock would see right through it - that's what he _does_. "I want more than that, Sherlock."

Another exhale. "They don't mind doing it. Mycroft pays them well - money is such a frivolous thing to care about, no?"

"I-I don't care about the assistants." Although knowing that Mycroft Holmes wasn't keeping them hostage in an underground cell somewhere was rather good. "Just tell me everything that I should know."

"I don't do it often."

John blinked, feeling his features soften. "Do what often, Sherlock?"

"Drink. From them." Sherlock sighed heavily. "I don't drink from them often. It's… It's animalistic and _wrong_. Besides, it's a distraction to the Work and I'd much rather catch a serial killer than act like one."

The good doctor wanted to say that it wasn't animalistic and wrong. That Sherlock could never be anything other than loud and brilliant and exciting. He wanted to shake the detective until he believed that he was no serial killer nor a monster. He wanted to say that Sherlock Holmes should be unapologetic in everything he is and everything he does; just like he always had been before John had found out about Sherlock's past.

He wanted to say that he would never run from Sherlock. Never be afraid of him, or disgusted. He wanted to say that anyone who did run from such a fantastic man was an idiot. He wanted to vow to Sherlock, in blood and bones, that he would do everything and anything to stop Sherlock from ever feeling like this again.

Feeling less than. Feeling animalistic and wrong. Feeling like he wasn't entitled to live as a human. Feeling like he needed validation from whoever that it was alright to be who he was.

There had to be some glorious way to articulate this. To say his thoughts and feelings without sounding… The army had made it very difficult indeed for John to say these sorts of things without it being difficult.

But this was Sherlock. Sherlock who had saved John and John who had saved Sherlock. Sherlock who had brought colour back to his world when John was seeing only grey. Sherlock who John had killed for.

It really shouldn't have been hard. But it was. It is.

And so all John could say was: "It's fine. All of it, Sherlock. I don't mind."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his tea. "I can go for two weeks without drinking. The other day, at the crime scene, it was nearing three weeks. That's why I looked like that."

John flicked his mind back. Yes, Sherlock had looked different. Paler skin, grey at the contours of his body, the black lines, and, oh yes, the fangs. "The dried blood from the corpse mixed with not drinking in a while caused… that," he waved a hand, "the black veins don't always happen. In case you were wondering."

"Can I see the fangs again?"

In half the time it took John to blink, elongated and sharp fangs slid out from where Sherlock's canines had been. John nearly swore - nearly. It should've looked wrong; seeing proof of who Sherlock really was.

But… As he stared at the fangs and that ridiculously bowed mouth, it didn't look wrong at all. In fact it was absolutely extraordinary. There was an entirely different world out there, one that the man before him was a part of, and all his life he had had no idea.

Sherlock smiled at John's reaction, showing off his teeth even more, before retracing them. "How do they work?" He asked, feeling very much like a child in a sweet shop. _Being back in medical school indeed._

"John, you amaze me. You've claimed to watch countless vampire inspired films and yet you don't know how they work?"

If he wasn't so grateful that a piece of Sherlock's the-universe-is-so-unbelievably-ignorant-kill-me-now attitude was still there, John might've poured what was rest of the detective's tea over his head.

Instead, John held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. You've been so annoyed whenever I mentioned fictional vampires, I thought it would be a good idea to avoid stereotypes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering something about avoiding stereotypes under his breath. "They work exactly like how the fictional ones work."

John thought it best not to mention that, in fiction, the process of drinking someone's blood from their throat was portrayed as a rather pleasuring, sexual act. Perhaps Sherlock already knew that - he did say it was exactly like the movies.

Perhaps it was best not to think about Sherlock in such a way. He'd been so sure about Sherlock being asexual, but then Irene Adler had come into the picture and there had been such a… pull towards the two of them that John had been completely thrown.

Maybe the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler was just one of intellectual intrigue - for a while, the Woman had been the only criminal managing to stump the detective. Maybe it would remain forever a mystery and the only man capable of solving it wouldn't even know because of his involvement.

It was much like the way doctors were advised not to give surgery to family and friends; the bond was too tangled for anything to be professional.

John opened his mouth to ask another question when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. He turned his attention to the doorway just as Sherlock said, without ever removing his eyes where they had been focused on John, "You've brought the files, Graham."

Lestrade waved a folder, panting as if he'd ran here all the way from Scotland Yard. "You're not going to believe this."

 

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Holmes, I see you. Do you see me? Twelve hours remaining starting now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm truly sorry for the long wait. I have no excuse other than the beginning of this chapter was being tricky.   
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and views. You guys are the best!!   
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - please let me know what you think :D  
> Stars Xoxo

The files were heavy and thick. Lestrade slapped them onto the coffee table with the force of a man who had the whole world grating at his last nerve. John sighed and checked the time on his watch; a quarter to three.

What time had he even woken up? It must've been fairly late. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had been two days. Two days since the truth about Sherlock Holmes had finally come out. Two days since the first layer of his world had been peeled off only for him to discover a brighter, darker, thrilling and much more terrifying one underneath.

If the universe were to keep peeling its layers, if it were to unravel itself before John's very eyes, what would the very first layer reveal? At the core of the world, at the absolute beginning of time, when the planet and all of its occupants were raw and untouched, what had been there? And what fragments of the first version still thrived in this version?

Earth had been reinvented plenty of times. From the changes of the centuries, the changes of thrones, the changes of languages and beliefs, mannerisms and laws, the world had changed. But John had been living in this world and it was perfect for him: civilian with enough excitement to keep him anticipating tomorrow.

And then Sherlock had peeled that layer, that safety net, off of John's version of the world. It was like there had been a film over his eyes all his life and now he was seeing everything for what it truly was. It made John wonder if Sherlock Holmes and all his kind were one of the things the universe had wanted to get rid of in one of its changes.

If that were true, what other inexplicables had hid when Earth changed? And still thrived in each new turn?

Horrors - vampires, monsters, witches, ghosts, goblins, and all other things that go bump in the night - dating back from centuries ago could be living right outside their front door.

"Forensics went over that scene for hours," Lestrade's tired voice cut John from his endless loop of thoughts, "there's not a single fingerprint. The thing's driving us insane."

Sherlock's elegant fingers began flicking through the file, his eyes scanning and humming at Lestrade's words. "Her hair was still styled perfectly and there were no signs of a struggle - she trusted her killer. A friend, a family member, although all other evidence points towards a romantic interest." Sherlock flicked his eyes up to Lestrade's as the DI opened his mouth to question him. "The height of her shoes, Giles, and her nails. Surely they didn't fail to grasp your attention."

Greg rubbed a hand down his face. "Sherlock, I've been at this all day, if you could just-"

"No scuff marks nor breaks in the nails, so she had just had them done recently and didn't try to get away - if she had, there would be marks. A woman of her profession wouldn't have been able to afford treatment such as that. She had had them done for a special occasion, then. She had wanted to impress whomever it was that killed her."

"A first date, then?" John offered. He always made an effort to scrub up nicely on a first date - you could be about to meet someone who would change your life. After meeting Sherlock for the first time at Bart's, John had rushed back to his sad flat and sorted himself out… Mainly because he had felt like an absolute mess at the time, but also because a miniscule part of him knew that that had been important.

Fate had known what it was doing with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

"No. Why spend money on looking attractive when it could all be a waste of time?" Sherlock paused on a page in the folder. Her personal records. Unidentified. "Lestrade, no one has contacted Scotland Yard because of a missing person?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not to my knowledge, no." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Sad though, isn't it? A young woman dying alone, no name, no grieving family members or friends. The whole thing is like she didn't exist at all."

Sherlock gasped and started pacing. "Oh, this is brilliant. This is _fantastic."_

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock-"

"A serial killer. It has to be! He picks a lonely woman, desperate for a relationship and stupid enough to trust easily. No one would miss her when she's gone, no one would even know she was missing until the next day at the office." Sherlock clapped his hands together. "She was hoping for a proposal. That's why she was dressed up. She willingly follows him to a back alley, because she thinks he's about to ask for marriage, and-"

Lestrade held a hand. "Hang on, hang on. How did you get serial killer from that? And how do you know it was a man?"

Sherlock huffed, clearly annoyed at having to explain himself. John walked over to the living room and picked up his notebook and a pen - Sherlock always hated John asking him to clarify things for the blog, so the good doctor had found it to be much easier to just take notes whilst he was in deduction mode.

"Serial killers always leave a mark. They're proud of their work and want people to be reminded of them when they see something. Think of it like a signature," Sherlock continued his pacing, gesturing wildly with his hands. "A serial killer is an actor and their victims are the stage. And this, Inspector, is his first act."

John paused his writing. None of that answered Lestrade's questions, and there was still a piece of information the DI hadn't offered up yet. "You said there were no fingerprints," he turned to Greg, "but that's not why you're here, is it?"

"No, he's here because in the victim's dress pocket were three pieces of garlic and it's the exact same thing of the contents of that letter Mrs Hudson gave you last night."

"Shut up, Sherlock." By now, that was just a reflex one developed whilst living with the detective.

Sherlock scowled. "Honesty, I've been quiet about it all day, but it's like living with a month old corpse that's being drowned in vinegar."

"Now you know what it's like to live with you."

"You don't mean that."

"No, I don't. But you're still a pain in the arse."

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Can you lot please get it together?" He turned to Sherlock. "Yes, there were three pieces of garlic in her pocket and I'm assuming there's three pieces of garlic in some letter upstairs. That's obviously a personal connection to you. Now either you start telling us everything you know or I'm going to have to take you in for questioning."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and folded himself elegantly into his chair, staring at John and Lestrade in the kitchen. "Until there's another murder, we can't be certain of his motives or his trademark. Although, the time and precision needed to drain a body of blood suggests that our killer wants this to be his signature.

"As for the connection to myself, I've no idea." Sherlock was glaring and John smirked to himself - there was something funny about the great consulting detective having a criminal send him some sort of message he didn't understand.

 _Yet_ , John corrected silently. Sherlock would, and could, solve every case placed before him. All it took was time and patience.

Lestrade spoke, "Well, it's garlic. Supposedly, it repels vampires. Like crucifixes or holy water."

Sherlock's glare deepened. "What on earth do you do with your brains when they're not in use?"

"Buy garlic, crucifixes and holy water on eBay."

John chuckled. "Garlic," Sherlock began in a voice that held no room for interruptions, "is repellent to anyone who has a sense of smell. Vampires have heightened senses and it is therefore amplified for us," he sniffed, his eyes flicking to the stairs. "It's intolerable. The idea about crucifixes and holy water is just stupid," Sherlock waved a dismissal hand.

"But there was garlic in the victim's pocket and in a letter sent to this address," John thought aloud, "so the murderer must know about you, Sherlock."

The detective hummed and steepeld his hands. Did they shake as he did that? It could've been a trick of the light. John wasn't sure. Was Sherlock afraid of other people knowing who he was? "What else was in the letter?"

John shrugged, "I don't know. I just put in my pocket."

"Can you go get it?" Lestrade asked.

Nodding, John stood from the table and made his way up the stairs to his room. His jeans from the previous day were slung over his dresser drawer - he must've thrown them there when he was drunk. John winced as he shook them out and watched a folded letter flutter to the floor like a petal off of a flower.

Sherlock and Lestrade were sat in comfortable silence by the time John reached the living room again. The DI was flipping through the case notes for what must've been the hundredth time and Sherlock was staring at the bookshelves.

He held the letter out to Sherlock. The detective took it from his outstretched hand and inspected the envelope. John watched as he held it up to the light, brought it closer to his face, sniffed, and traced the address with elegant fingers, before carefully breaking the seal and shaking out the contents.

Yes, as Sherlock had suspected, three pieces of garlic thumped to the ground as well as a note. Sherlock held an arm up to cover his nose, kicked the garlic away with his foot, and scanned silver eyes over the paper.

John knelt down to pick up the garlic and took the pieces over to where Lestrade watched at the table. The case notes were open to a page of pictures, one including the garlic found at the crime scene, and John compared them. As if he was just checking to see if this whole thing wasn't a coincide.

Identical. The pieces were absolutely identical to the ones in the photo.

There was a crash in the living room. John and Lestrade turned to stare as Sherlock stood and began throwing books off their shelves. "Sherlock!" John raised his voice, walking over to the detective and pulling him away from the shelf. "What are you doing?"

"There are cameras," Sherlock said, sounding almost hysterical. Impossible. The only time Sherlock had came close to sounding hysterical was in the pub at Dartmoor. His eyes held the same fearful, unsure look - he only got that look when he didn't understand something and was afraid because of it. "There has to be."

Managing to grab Sherlock's arms, John held them still and strong. Sherlock could have overpowered him easily, could have killed John in less than ten seconds. John found that he didn't care that he was almost wrestling a near seven-hundred-year-old vampire. He wasn't really. He was just calming a friend.

"Sherlock," John's voice was soft, "why are there cameras?"

"There's no other possible way for someone to know about what I am," Sherlock shrugged himself out of John's grip and turned back to scouring the bookshelves, although with considerably more carefulness than before. "Spying, cameras, watching and feeding information. There has to be."

John picked up the letter and began reading aloud: "Mr. Holmes, I see you. Do you see me? Twelve hours remaining starting now."

Lestrade frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Sherlock said, his voice muffled from where he was busy with the shelves, "that our murderer is playing a game."

"I meant the twelve hours part."

"A countdown?" John suggested. "Although to what, I'm not sure."

Sherlock's _"Aha!"_ echoed throughout the flat, followed by another thud of books tumbling to the floor. He spun to face the kitchen, his eyes alight and bowed lips turned up ever so slightly. John would definitely need to have another chat with the detective about expressing joy so openly around death.

In his hands, though, was a tiny camera. Similar to the ones Mycroft uses to bug the flat. "It's broken."

"But whoever placed it there saw and heard what we were doing before it broke?" John asked, feeling vaguely worried about a serial killer watching him wank on the sofa when Sherlock wasn't home. "How long was it there?"

Sherlock twirled the camera between his fingers. "Judging from the collection of dust, a week at least."

"Probably broke when you were fighting with the books," John muttered.

"Can't you get your brother to check his security footage so you can see who came in and when?"

The scowl on Sherlock's face at Lestrade's words was priceless. John wondered if he had spent the past six hundred years perfecting his glares - it really wouldn't shock the good doctor if he had at this point. "Grayson, there are two things wrong with your plan. The first thing being that I am a Consulting Detective and would have noticed had a serial killer broke into my flat and hid a camera amongst my bookshelves, and the second being that even the notion of asking my brother for help is so repulsive, I would rather-"

"Alright, alright," Lestrade held his hands up. "Figure it out on your own."

Sherlock nodded and picked his laptop off of the desk. The DI checked his watch and sighed. "Look, I've got to get back to the office. I'll update everyone on what you said Sherlock, just try to keep us all in the loop? And if you get anywhere, don't do anything stupid."

"I'm quite capable of killing any human, Giles. Especially one so boastful - they're bound to make mistakes."

Greg grinned. "Touché. See you, John."

John raised a hand, watching as Greg left, before turning to Sherlock. He took a breath; this wasn't his strong suit, but he'd be damned if Sherlock got into trouble because John wasn't good at this sort of thing.

He stayed a safe distance away, behind Sherlock, watching as he typed furiously into the laptop. John cleared his throat, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave a non-committal hum. John wasn't sure if that meant he was listening or not. He opted for yes. "I know you think that just because you're a vampire, you're invincible. You think that the rest of us are slow and don't understand and it's just sentiment talking when we tell you to be careful. But you know what, Sherlock? Sentiment _is_ talking when we tell you to be careful and it's not a bad thing. You're surrounded by people who care for you and want you to be safe and, since you usually have no idea how to take of yourself, can you at least try? For all of us?"

There was no reply. John hadn't been expecting one. In fact, he was just happy that Sherlock hadn't left the room in a huff. John nodded to no one and muttered a _right_ under his breath before walking up to his room and quietly clicking the door shut behind him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The night was heavy and dark. Endless and lonely. Like so many he'd seen before.

Ink pooled into the living room, stars bowing onto the carpet, and the moon stretching across the furniture. It turned everything silver and Sherlock wondered, vaguely, if this was what belonging to the night meant: to be awake in the reflection of the sky whilst the world slept.

Night was his favourite time of day. It was the time his kind had been crafted to revel in. He could look out of the window, look up, and forget entirely what era he was living in. 1999 when he had greeted the turning of the years in a drug den, 1923 when he had sat beside a friend's deathbed, 1895 when he had danced in a courtyard with the most beautiful man he had ever known, 1828 when he had watched the stars perform with the moon and decided that his name was Sherlock.

Night was his least favourite time of day. It was the time where he was most lonely. A hundred different faces waited for him when he dreamed, and not all of them were welcome, so he had to stay awake. Always. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. Night was the time when he was supposed to greet his beloved dead.

Tonight, 2012, he was awake. Curled up on the sofa and hugging his knees, he felt every inch the dying boy he had been in 1349. A part of him was dying, a piece of his ice melting, and it was all John Watson's fault.

 _You're surrounded by people who care for you_.

Ridiculous. Preposterous. John had to be insane.

Nobody cared for him. He didn't blame them. Sherlock didn't particularly care for himself.

Why should he?

He was a monster. A defect the world had failed to fix. He was a murderer every time he ate, every time he slept. He was dead every time he faked a breath, every time he opened his mouth.

There was no escape from this. He was in hell and the gate was locked. Where was the key? Who had the key? There had to be a key - why create a room without a door?

But it wasn't a room. It was a cell. This body of his was a cell in which his soul was entombed, always dithering on the edge of dead and alive. He was in between, he was forgotten. The world hadn't known whether to kill him or heal him so it had chosen both.

John was surely to leave. Eventually. Sherlock had known people who had stayed for years before they had ran. Screaming and crying and too caught up in their own fear to realise they had left all their belongings with him.

Countless fires he had lit. Countless fires he had sat around, on nights very much like this one, where he burnt everything that reminded him of them and watched it slowly fold to embers and ash.

Their belongings became dead things much like himself.

He would have to burn John's things. Eventually. The jumpers he pretended to hate, the gun, the coat. John Watson would leave and Sherlock Holmes would be alone for another hundred years until the loop restarted.

He should know better than to have connections to the human world. They all left, they all died, and he would show up on his brother's door, higher than the stars in the sky, crying and asking why it hurt so much.

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ Mycroft would sigh as he pulled his brother close to him. Like he had done so many times before and, for a moment, Sherlock would forget everything that had happened in those long years where he had lost himself.

His chin resting on his knees, Sherlock watched the door to 221B. John would leave. There was no doubt about that. The only question was when.

_Sentiment is talking when we tell you to be careful and it's not a bad thing._

He would leave. He would leave. He would leave.

And so that's how Sherlock spent his night - so heavy and dark, so endless and lonely - waiting for the sound of John's departing footsteps.

But it never came.

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's been another one," Lestrade's voice was gruff and weary when Sherlock finally deigned to answer. "At the bottom of Duck Lane in Soho. You need to get down here before forensics take over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and views are the absolute best! You marvels <3  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know what you think :D
> 
> Love to you all,  
> Stars Xoxo

_The only way to embrace an eternal life, William_ , his brother always used to say, _is to embrace a perilous life._

Oh, he had embraced a perilous life. Lived and seen enough danger and risk to last a millennia.

But he craved more.

Greed. That was what the humans called it. Greed, thirst, ambition. William had those aplenty. Love, courage, warmth. That was the humans valued. Those, he was sincerely lacking.

Perhaps, once, a hundred lifetimes ago, he had possessed those qualities the humans held so highly. In the eyes of his brother, the unseeing eyes of his parents, or the emotionless eyes of those who had turned him when he had been a sickly, dying, useless thing, perhaps they had seen love and courage and warmth in him.

And they had taken that away.

Like blowing out a candle. Suddenly, he had blinked and the world had lost its colour. His life and the lives of others had lost meaning. The heat that flowed through his veins, the heat that sustained his body, had vanished. Replaced by the cold shards of a broken heart.

For years after he had been turned, he had wept. And wept at how much he could weep. And wept at how long forever was, how lonely it seemed. And he had wept because he had sworn he could feel those cold shards of his broken heart scraping against his empty veins.

He would've spent forever weeping and mourning all what could've been had Mycroft Holmes not stood by his side. 

His brother, seven years his elder, and much more content with his vampirism than William. Mycroft Holmes was the only thing he had left. The only thing that convinced him that he had once been human and that, perhaps, a piece of him still was.

William clung to Mycroft with everything he had.

Then Mycroft had been stolen from him.

The brothers had been sleeping on straw in the empty barn of a dead farmer's land. That night was the reason Mycroft called him Brother Mine: William had been inconsolable, screaming and raging and tearing at his skin as if he wanted to escape it.  _Please_ , he yelled, _please tell me I wasn't always like this. Tell me I had a heart that loved and lighted the lives of others instead of this dead muscle caged inside me._

Mycroft didn't know what to say. What could he say? Except… They had both been human. Once. Long ago. Mycroft knew he had been human, and knew that he and William were brothers. That meant William had to be human, too.

So Mycroft Holmes did the only thing he knew he could do. He held his brother and squeezed him tight. _Brother Mine,_ he would murmur onto the dark curls of William's head. _Brother Mine, Brother Mine, Brother Mine._

William stopped crying. He had worked himself into a state of exhaustion and slept, resting half on the bed of straw, half on his brother's shoulder. He had been so drained that he had not noticed when his brother had been taken from him.

In the watery light of early morning, the absence of his brother hit William like a punch to the stomach. He was winded, shocked, scared, and still oh-so-tired.

But his brother, whom he loved so dearly, had been taken from him. For no reason other than, he would later find out, because there were rumours of Mycroft Holmes acting in peculiar ways.

Village people, so set in their fashions, did not like the peculiar.

Twelve of them had taken Mycroft whilst William slept. Twelve of them had tied him to the trunk of a tree and set its leaves on fire, watching as the flames curled downwards, drawing ever nearer to Mycroft.

William had raged.

How dare they take his brother? The only thing he loved? How dare they touch the only piece he had left of his family? How dare they, how dare they, how dare they?

They were dead within seconds, their blood staining William's teeth and their entrails hanging from bloodless corpses. William had ripped out throats, stomachs, and any other part he could get to. How dare they, how dare they, how dare they?

He had saved his brother.

That night, as he watched Mycroft Holmes arrange a room for them in a local inn, William had shed the final remnants of his human self. To protect his brother, he had become a monster.

And a monster he would stay.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock watched his mobile vibrate on the desk for the second time in as many minutes.

_Twelve hours remaining._

Twelve hours starting as soon as that letter had been opened. How did the killer know when it had been opened? Sherlock had examined the letter as thoroughly as he would a crime scene - no motion sensors, no cameras, nothing that could be recorded and streamed right to the sender.

It was just a plain envelop. A bit unusual in its colouring and lettering, but plain. The seal had been red with an eye printed on it. Strange, but not completely out of the ordinary. It had smelt, for the most part, like garlic. But there was an underlying scent, something so weak no human nose could pick up on: the stale stench of old blood.

He had nearly gagged. Probably would have gagged had his pride not gotten in the way.

The lettering had been done in a steady hand. Thick black ink, thin on the upward stroke and thick on the downward stroke. Somebody had taken a great amount of time to pen the letter. A great amount of precision.

Sherlock closed his eyes and stood at the threshold of his mind palace.

There had been a camera in the flat, his flat, and he had not known. But no one had broken in. There was garlic at the crime scene and there had been garlic in the letter. Someone knew when the letter would be opened, but there were no other cameras. The letter had taken time to write: someone who enjoyed speaking of the crimes he committed and who was not fazed by it. It reeked of stale blood - two days, at least.

Conclusion: there was somebody watching 221B Baker Street. Someone who knew about what he was, if they weren't one themselves.

His phone buzzed again. Sherlock opened his eyes. The letter had been opened at five past three and now Lestrade was phoning him at a quarter to four in the morning.

_Twelve hours remaining starting now._

"There's been another one," Lestrade's voice was gruff and weary when Sherlock finally deigned to answer. "At the bottom of Duck Lane in Soho. You need to get down here before forensics take over."

There should've been something when Lestrade confirmed another death. Some human instinct. Sadness, guilt. Useless things that wouldn't solve a murder and yet people appreciated them.

Nothing.

This was a game and they were pawns on the board. Sherlock clenched his hand around his phone and breathed deeply. "Hold off Anderson - we'll be there soon."

Sherlock didn't wait for a reply before hanging up.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was army instincts - still embedded deep within his being like when you cut down a tree only to discover that its roots had spread much further than you had thought - that told John he was being watched.

He opened his groggy eyes and yawned into his fist as his sight adjusted to the darkness of the room. It couldn't have been later than 3:00AM and the warmth of his sheets beneath him was almost enough for John to surrender back to unconsciousness.

There was an outline at the foot of his bed. John squinted - it looked like a person. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, John moved as closer as he could whilst still being tangled in his duvet to the figure.

And promptly swore, almost hitting his head on the bed's headboard as he recoiled sharply.

Sherlock laughed - a deep, rumbling sound - and retracted his fangs.

"You bastard," John panted as the last of the adrenaline wore off. "You absolute cock."

The lights switched on and John groaned as the room was flushed with brightness and colour. _Christ_. "Do get up, John, there's been another murder and," Sherlock sniffed, "I'd like to get there before Anderson tampers with it."

"Bloody prick, that's what you are," John muttered, swearing a blue streak. "Coming into my room in the middle of the night, scaring the shit out of me, turning my lights on - what if I had had someone in bed with me?"

John heard rather than saw Sherlock roll his eyes. "Please, John, you haven't had a female companion in weeks."

"Female companion," John said under his breath. "Get out so I can get changed, then."

He waited to hear Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs before rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and sighing deeply. He hadn't had a girlfriend in months, actually, but that was probably something much too trivial for Sherlock to remember.

There was irony in that somewhere. John didn't want to think where.

His last girlfriend had said something that had stuck in his mind. A record with no play or pause button. _Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes._

He thought of that a lot. Usually during more inconvenient times, but the words were always there.

John was thinking of one particular word as he stood and dressed. As he shook the lethargy from his bones and wasted twenty seconds reviewing what he wrote in his notebook yesterday:

_Compete._

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John investigate the case, Lestrade is on the verge of a mental breakdown, and there's another venture into Sherlock's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2-3 days between chapter updates? What happened to that? Again, I'm terribly sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy this chapter.   
> Thank you for the kudos, bookmarks, subscribes, comments, and reads as always. Please let me know what you think :D
> 
> Love you all,  
> Stars Xoxo

From the years of chasing after criminals through the streets of London, John had learnt that Soho had a very active nightlife. Even during the dark hours of early morning, there were groups of tipsy young adults chanting to whatever song that had been playing in the clubs. John watched in fond amusement as a man dipped his lady under a street light.  _You haven’t had a female companion in weeks._

Shaking his head to rid himself of Sherlock’s unwelcome words, the good doctor flicked his eyes to where Sherlock was gliding elegantly through the streets. The cab ride over had been quiet, uncomfortably so, through no fault of John’s own. He’d been making light conversation – well, as light a conversation as one could when on one’s way to a crime scene.  _Tell me about the letter, tell me about the garlic pieces, tell me about these poor murder victims, tell me why you haven’t slept even though you look like you’re about to keel over, tell me why you’re ashamed of who you are._

He didn’t voice the last two, of course, but they were playing on John’s mind like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. He knew that Sherlock didn’t need as much sleep as the average person but John was becoming more and more worried at the detective’s appearance; dark purple shadows under his eyes, skin paler than usual, eyes glassy, and a shaking in his hands whenever he gestured. John knew that none of that was because Sherlock needed to drink; he’d said he could last weeks and the last one had only been a few days ago.

But when was the last time Sherlock slept? Had it been three days ago after Lestrade had given him blood? No, no, he hadn’t been sleeping even then. He’d been unconscious. John frowned, casting his mind back. The detective certainly hadn’t been asleep this week and they were in the wee hours of Wednesday: three days, at the very least. And if John couldn’t recall if Sherlock had even rested the week before… Well, that was bad news.

The doctor had made it his mission to remember the mundane things Sherlock tended to forget; sleeping, eating, etc, even if they weren't as pressing now that John knew about Sherlock's vampirism and, undead or not, John was sure that the detective couldn’t go more than a week without rest. Especially when on a case like this.

Again, John shook his head and focused on the case. He’d think about all of that later, preferably when there wasn’t a dead body in front of him, and preferably after he’d forced Sherlock into bed.

Duck Lane was very, very different from the usual buzz of Soho. It was just a lane of quiet flats. There were no street lamps and, if it weren’t for the red and blue police lights, the lane would’ve been almost pitch black. Sherlock lifted up the police tap that sectioned the lane off from the rest of Soho and John stooped under, muttering his thanks.

The lane lead to nowhere. There was a row of bins at the end and full black bin bags scattered around. Two were ripped open, the contents of rubbish spilling out and, with the mixture of dried blood and mouldy food and god-only-knew-what-else, there was a sour tang to the air that would've made some people turn green.

But the vampire consulting detective and the army doctor who had dealt with injuries so severe, he'd had to touch the bones and organs of friends? Well, to say they'd feel at home in such an environment would be a little bit not good, but... It would take an awful thing indeed to faze them.

Unlike the unidentified woman, the first known victim, the second one didn't seem to be in such a painful state. Blood seemed to be everywhere except the corpse, yes, but all of the body's limbs seemed to be connected.

John ran a quick examination in his head - a doctor's instinct - and noted a broken femur in the left thigh, a broken nose, and a long incision that had been made in the neck as if… as if the murderer had been about to chop of the victim's head and had thought better of it. The bowels and bladder had emptied, but there was no sign of Rigor Mortis.

"Give me details, Lestrade," Sherlock said as he began twirling around the body, his coat flaring behind him like a cape.

Lestrade handed Sherlock what looked like a wallet. "His driver's license has been stolen, but his debit card is still there. We've got a team asking the bank for the poor guy's information as soon as you're done with it.

"A group of three girls, American, were exploring London's nightlife and saw what looked to be a body at the end of the lane and immediately called the police - they're currently in for questioning at the station, but I'll see if I can pull some strings so you can ask anything as well. He was found forty-five minutes ago."

Greg sighed, looking in deep need of a coffee. Sherlock knelt down beside the corpse, lifting pieces of clothing and gently turning limbs to inspect them. "Judging from the same way that the blood has been drained, we're guessing that it's the same killer from the other victim. Forensics haven't been in yet, but," he shrugged, "please tell me you have something."

Sherlock took a deep breath and stood, dusting down his suit as he did so. "The clothes are expensive, designer, and he's recently had his hair coloured, his nails done and skin tanned professionally. His business card was in the wallet," Sherlock held the card between elegant fingers, "and all the information your so-called _team_ were failing to find can be found on there."

John took the card and began scanning it. Michael Greeves, Sheridans, a phone number and an email. "He was a lawyer," John commented as he passed the card over to Lestrade. "Sheridans is based in Mayfair… Not that far."

"Michael Greeves wasn't killed here," Sherlock said, his eyes flicking and gathering as much information as he could. "There are drag marks and mud on his clothes - a man as vain as he appears to be wouldn't have allowed his clothes to be dirty like that."

Lestrade frowned. "We could check where his phone last pinged up - that would give us a vague idea - and then check the security cameras of the area."

"Why would he make it so easy? The killer, I mean."

There was a flicker of a smile on Sherlock's face. "He wants to be found. Serial killers want nothing more than power and fame. They're malevolent."

"Right," Lestrade said, folding his arms. "Have you got anything else to go on? We really need to make progress in this case."

Sherlock was already texting on his phone. The light showing off the delicate pale skin of his face and neck, contouring his cheekbones with shadows and- he switched it off. "Perhaps. Send the body to Bart's for the autopsy - there's something I need to check. I'll be in touch soon."

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock was already walking away - nothing more than a wisp of darkness in the night he had been crafted for. John sighed, long and hard, and looked away from Sherlock's retreating form to face the DI. "Good luck with the case," he offered half-heartedly.

Greg nodded and there was a beat of silence before he asked: "How's it going? With, uh, Sherlock's thing?"

John knew what he meant. Lestrade couldn't outright say that Sherlock was a vampire, especially if Donovan or Anderson were near and John didn't want to know what they'd do if they were to ever find out.

 _No,_ John thought firmly. He would never let anybody hurt Sherlock again. The detective didn't know it, but John was fully aware of Sherlock's… Sherlock's never-ending worry that the good doctor might someday leave.

He would never leave. Could never leave. Somehow John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had become fused together since the day they met and John wouldn't allow anything to break that.

But John shrugged at Lestrade's question and spoke the truth. "It's fine. Really. There's not that much difference save for some of his… quirks, I guess, showing every now and again. I suppose it's because he doesn't have to hide it anymore." _And he shouldn't have ever felt the need to hide in the first place._

"What do you mean?"

John took a deep breath. "Well, seeing Sherlock walk around in his bloody bedsheet with his fangs out with take some getting used to."

Lestrade laughed quietly. "But you're going to stay with him, right?"

The good doctor watched as Sherlock's retreating form disappeared round the bend of the road. _Silly question, complicated question, simple question_. Yes, John would stay with Sherlock. Yes, John would always stay with Sherlock. Their lives, John was sure, would be forever entwined and no one and nothing could sever that connection.

The doctor and the sociopath. The army doctor and the addict. The blogger and the detective.

Each and every quality of them - good and bad - was mirrored in the other. No matter how bad Sherlock might think he was, John had an equally dark piece of himself. And… And it was a childish, romantic thought, but perhaps the awful parts could turn into good parts if they stuck together.

Sherlock Holmes, despite the body parts in the fridge, was a good influence on John. He gave the doctor the chance to get off the ground. John Watson, despite the swearing, was a good influence on Sherlock. He gave the detective the chance to calm down.

"Yes," John said, swallowing. "Of course."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

During the winter of 1801, William Sherlock Scott Holmes was in Quebec.

He didn't care for Quebec. The frost was too thick, the snow was too white, the trees were too skeletal, and the people were too quiet. The cold was especially harrowing after he'd spent the summer in the Caribbean islands. _Which,_ William thought with a wince, _might not have been my best idea_.

But he'd spent his mornings swimming to the bottom of the oceans and exploring old ships, his afternoons wandering the small towns and villages and buying whatever he pleased, his evenings drinking some of the best wine he'd ever tasted, and his nights courting anyone who was stupid enough to trust a stranger and killing them before dawn.

Killing them… Always and forever. For every man and woman he'd been with, they'd ended up dying by his hand. _You do not love, William. You were made for much better things._

His brother had said that only once. But he had gotten ensnared in the tangled knot of William's mind and had refused to leave. _You do not love._

Not loving would solve a lot of his problems. It would mean that he wouldn't have to kill them at the end of things. But…

This life, this existence, was so dreadfully dull. Painful. Having lovers, even if just for a while, somehow made it more bearable.

The softness of their skin against his own, the warmth of their breath, the heaviness of their limbs as they embraced, the innocence of their words as they whispered how much they loved him, how much they adored him… It was enough to make him feel human.

Even if just for a while.

There was nothing human about Quebec, William decided. The mere thought of a person living here was… odious. How could anybody bear the emptiness of it all?

The wood he was now prowling had not an animal. It was as if he'd walked into a painting. Time seemed frozen, meaningless, in an entirely different way that it usually seemed. Were it not for the ceaseless petty flow of snowflakes, William would've worried that the earth had ended.

The world will end not in fire, but in ice.

He'd walked from a small, tucked away village. He'd walked for hours. Possibly days. Nothing mattered.

But there was something he had been following. A scent. A warmth that only a human could possess. It was a warmth that, like a string, twirled around his being and tightened. Sealing itself inside of William's undead corpse.

There was the sound of a fire crackling. Of footsteps across the floor. Gliding and graceful. He was close. Close, closer, and closer.

_And there!_

A log cabin.

William watched from behind a leafless tree. It hardly looked fit for living in. For someone to call a home.

Grey chunks of wood piled on top of each other, layered with frost. There was nothing between the wood, nothing to stop the cold from getting in. An unsteady roof draped across the wood, stretching from side to side. Like a giant cat down for a nap. There was a door, also made of old wood, that looked to have been hurriedly thrust between the walls and locked. No chimney, no fireplace.

But... There was the sound of embers, of fire.

William moved from the tree and kept his footsteps silent as he neared the door and tilted his head to the side so that his ear was pressed to the old wood.

An act. An act as it always was.

He would watch, study, and respond. He would become exactly what his lovers wished him to be.

The door opened and William tumbled in.

"Oh!" He gasped, making sure to kick the door shut as he landed face first on the floor. "Oh, forgive me sir! I am dreadfully sorry."

The man before him was short and stocky with greying hair and green eyes. He had the shadows of facial hair, wrinkles lining his eyes and forehead. An upturned mouth with thin lips, light eyebrows, and a wide neck.

There was a twinkle in the man's eyes as William stood and bowed his head. "No need to apologise, my boy. But tell me, for I am most curious and you must forgive me if I intrude, what are you doing in the cold?"

William shuffled his feet. This man needed someone different, someone young. Someone who could make the cold nights seem warm. "I am staying in a village several days travel back. I grew weary of the same sights and took the chance to explore the beauty of this land and… Well, I appear as if I got a tad lost."

The man had laughed, light and cheery from deep within his belly. "You sound mad! Where are your companions?"

"Back in the village, sir."

"Oh, my boy, please," he said lightly, "you need not be so formal." The man stuck out a thick hand. "My name is Jonathon Neil."

He took his hand and made a show of widening his eyes at the strong grip. "William Holmes," he said with a smile. "A pleasure."

Jonathon guided William over to where two quilted beige chairs stood. Dark, polished wood with intricate carvings at the top. An owl and a fox. "Sit, William, and I shall fetch us some tea."

The tea, when Jonathon brought it over, was more soothing than it was warm. William wrapped his hands around his cup and made himself look small as he slumped into the chair, crossed his legs and looked to the ground.

"Tell me, William, what is the matter?"

"You are kind," he began, bending his voice to be soft and breaking. "And you are wise for you built this home. I wish to stay longer, but I fear-"

 _There._ Sitting in the corner of the room was the source of the fire. A single candle encased in a glass dome. "What is that?" William asked, forcing wonder into his tone.

Jonathan chuckled as he gazed lovingly at the flame. "It was a gift from a friend long since past. My most prized possession."

"The candle?"

He nodded. "The glass, too."

William frowned. "But what is the point of fire if it is too trapped to heat?"

Again, there was that happy chuckle. "It is the perfect metaphor for life and for people."

His frown deepened, his brow creasing. "I do not follow."

"What is the point of fire, Mr. Holmes?"

"Heat," William answered without hesitation.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong." Jonathon leaned forward, his eyes bright. "Fire has many purposes. Heat, yes. But also light. Encased in the glass dome, it does not give a lot of heat. But it does give a lot of light."

"And how does that relate to people?"

Jonathon smiled and leaned back in his chair. "My dear boy, we are born for many purposes. If we cannot complete one purpose, it does not mean that we have none. It simply means that we must find another."

William pondered this for a moment. And he hated how little of it was an act. "The candle cannot give off heat, but it gives light. It has a purpose other than heat."

"Precisely!"

They spoke for hours. Long after their tea grew cold and long after the chairs became uncomfortable. Jonathon Neil, William learnt, was a fascinating man. Unlike the others, he did not spark a sense of love like Odette Priestly had. Nor had he set William's mind alight as Anthony Barlow had. But, instead, Jonathon Neil had given his caring, childlike view of the world.

And William believed himself a fool for never seeking it out sooner. This innocence and carefree happiness.

"William," Jonathon had whispered after the stars fell and night cast its heavy spell over them, "I have had not a human interaction in years and you are, quite possibly, the most wondrous thing my eyes have ever seen."

They hadn't made love. Their relationship was softer than that. But they had kissed. Only briefly. A faint touch of lips like the sigh of silk on skin.

Dawn greeted them. They had spoken long into the night, all night, and William was finding that he was not quite done yet. That he might never be done talking to this man. He could not bring himself to kill Jonathan.

William made his excuses the next morning and, as Jonathan grasped his hands right between his own, he made a promise. "I'll come back for you," he said. "When you have long since forgotten about me, I shall return."

"Why do you have to leave in the first place?"

Why indeed. William had a thousand answers to that question, none of them appealing. "I'll come back for you," he said again before walking through the door, the wood a barrier between them, and vanishing for years.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In 1826, William returned to that wood in Quebec. It was spring this time and so William could pretend that only a month had passed since he had last met Jonathan Neil.

He'd received a letter from his brother. It was brief and too the point as were all of his brother's letters. _The man you met is dying. I suggest you go to him before it is too late._

Too late... Not in the ordinary sense. Not in the dying sense. Before it is too late, to the Holmes brothers and William especially, meant kill before First Court arrive.

William, at least, could offer a much better death.

The log cabin looked exactly the same. The door felt the same and creaked the same, and it was only Jonathon that had changed.

He didn't come to the door.

William opened it, stepping inside and kicking it shut with his foot as he had down all those years ago.

Jonathon was sat in his chair. The same chairs. His stocky build had turned chubby, his wrinkles even deeper, his greying hair white and balding. There was still a cold cup of tea beside him.

He opened his eyes. They were the same green, but the whites had become yellow and blood shot. "William!" Jonathan exclaimed, his old face breaking into a smile and eyes flooding with tears. His voice was different; weaker. "Oh, William, I knew you'd return."

Hours. This was a man that had hours left.

William smiled as softly as he was capable. "When you have long since forgotten about me, I shall return."

Jonathon laughed and the sound turned into wet coughs speckled with blood. "My dear boy," he rasped, "I could never forget about you. Why, you haven't changed a bit!"

"You are too kind."

Jonathon was ranting, muttering. The drivel of a man driven half insane by death. William caught only fragments: _knew you would come back, my boy, wondrous thing, always knew._

It would've hurt to see a man who's mind used to be so bright so uncontrolled. So… babbling.

But it didn't hurt. "Forgive me, sir," William muttered as his fangs slipped from their sheaths, repeating the same words he'd used all those years ago. "I am dreadfully sorry."

Jonathon Neil's last words were:  _You wondrous thing._ He whispered them as he stared at William's fangs. As William placed his mouth over the skin at Jonathan's neck and pierced the skin.

"I am staying in a village several days travel back," William breathed against Jonathan's skin. He couldn't give the man forever. He couldn't give the man what he deserved.

But he could give the man an escape. William repeated the exact words he had spoken twenty-five years ago. An escape into a memory, a chance for Jonathan to believe that time hadn't moved on, for Jonathan to believe that time had frozen still just for them.

A chance to believe that nothing had changed at all.

And as William straightened, headed for the old wood door and wiped poor Jonathan's stale, disgusting, dying blood from his mouth, he turned to face the man. Slumped in the chair.

The candle was still burning.

William walked through the door, the wood a barrier between them, and vanished forever.


End file.
